The Bull Slayer apsm-2 Read online

  “Another bite of turbot?” He held out the morsel dripping with sauce on the point of his knife. Eat.” It was very nearly a command. Balbus’ face, square, brown, and hatched as a chopping block, leaned close, smiling unpleasantly. He was a man made entirely of bone and gristle, a man who kept himself fit, with big-knuckled hands and a shock of stiff red hair speckled grey. Gaulish blood there somewhere, Pliny imagined, or even German.

  Pliny waved the food away. The dishes were all too sauced and spiced for his frugal tastes. And he would not allow this man to bully him. After a long moment, Balbus withdrew his hand and shrugged.

  Conversation, which had died momentarily, resumed with pretended gaiety. There were nine of them at table, the usual number for a triclinium. In addition to Pliny and Calpurnia, the guests included Suetonius, who was always reliably entertaining at affairs like this; two wealthy Roman merchants, one accompanied by his wife, and a man named Silvanus, who was Balbus’ chief accountant. The merchant’s wife seemed to know Calpurnia and conversed with her throughout the evening with great animation. “Thrilled to see you again…this morning…a god…miraculous man…you must ask him…yes, a snake…” Calpurnia had that fixed smile on her face that meant she was bored to tears.

  Again Balbus brought his battered face close to Pliny and said in a whisper that was meant to be heard around the table, “We’ve met before, you know, you and I.”

  “Have we? I’m afraid I-”

  “Don’t remember my face? Well, I was younger and handsomer then, and I was only one of many. The night before Emperor Domitian was murdered. I was a Praetorian Guardsman then. We paid you a little visit, didn’t we? Almost cost you your life, didn’t it? And your charming wife’s.” He smiled at Calpurnia the way a crocodile smiles.

  Pliny felt the blood drain from his face. That was a night that still, after fourteen years, haunted his dreams. And Calpurnia’s. And why was Balbus mentioning it now? To make him squirm, why else? Suetonius shot Pliny a worried look. Calpurnia felt for his hand.

  Pliny drew a long breath. “Those were difficult days, my friend. Thank the gods we live in happier times.”

  Eager noises of assent around the table. Then Fabia, Balbus’ wife, a big-boned woman all bosom and jewels, hastily changed the subject to her favorite, her only, topic of conversation.

  “These Greeklings,” she said, “scoundrels every one of them. They don’t love us.” She spoke in a fluting, gentrified Latin that didn’t quite disguise something foreign in the accent-Thracian, it was rumored. Pliny had heard that she concealed barbarian tattoos under her clothing. He could almost believe it.

  “No reason why they should,” he answered mildly.

  “We’ve brought them peace, haven’t we?”

  “Peace, lady Fabia, has never been what they wanted. If the Empire were to disappear tomorrow they would all be fighting each other again and loving it.”

  “Strange words for a governor,” Balbus struck in.

  “I’m a realist. They pay a high price for Roman peace as you, of course, would know, Procurator.”

  Balbus eyed him suspiciously. “Is there a question buried in that remark, Governor?”

  Marcus Vibius Balbus was not accustomed to being questioned. Trajan had appointed him Fiscal Procurator of the province. For over two years now he had wielded absolute authority to raise taxes and pay the soldiers, answerable to no one but the Emperor. He had his own office and staff and lived lavishly with his family in a spacious seaside villa south of the city, while Pliny and Calpurnia camped out in the shambles of their ruinous palace. Balbus’ power had equaled that of the governor himself. Not bad for a man who had started life as a common soldier, and clawed his way up the ranks: Chief Centurion of a legion, then a stint in the Night Watch, the City Battalions, and the Praetorian Guard, and finally a succession of civil posts in every corner of the world. The typical procurator’s career, it produced the tough, experienced men who made the Empire run.

  Balbus was a man whom no governor questioned. Until now. Pliny’s extraordinary commission from the emperor overrode his authority. Balbus knew it. Pliny knew that he knew it. How long would it be before they had to confront it?

  The procurator pulled in his horns just a little. “You have questions about the taxes, Gaius Plinius, speak to my man Silvanus. You there, Silvanus, are you still sober enough to speak? Introduce yourself. Where’re your manners, you ugly fellow? This is our new governor, come all the way from Rome to help us count our pennies. Show him some respect. Perhaps you’ve brought your abacus with you, show him how well you do sums.”

  The man addressed was short-necked, beak-faced, and bald but for a few sparse hairs combed ear to ear; he resembled, Pliny thought, nothing so much as a tortoise. His eyes were narrow and nearly without lashes. He blinked them myopically. He stared at his food, his jaws working, and said nothing.

  “The man’s as dumb as he is ugly,” Balbus said in a loud voice and laughed.

  But Fabia, Pliny noticed, did not laugh. What was it that crossed her face for an instant? A tightening of the jaw muscles, the eyes moving to Silvanus and then sliding quickly away. Perhaps it was only his imagination.

  “But he’s loyal,” Balbus continued. “Loyalty’s the great thing. Been with me for years.”

  Another uncomfortable silence. Broken by Suetonius, who asked, “What can you tell us about the former governor?”

  “Anicius?” Balbus answered. “Excellent man. Excellent. Miss him already.”

  Pliny and Suetonius had met Anicius Maximus at the harbor where he was waiting, amidst a mountain of luggage, to sail back to Italy on their ship’s return voyage. He had seemed almost pathetically eager to be on his way. The emperor had nothing against the man, or at least nothing he had shared with Pliny, and yet Anicius’ jumping eyebrows, his fluttering hands, his muttered apologies for his hasty departure all seemed to signal some consciousness of guilt. Would he be the seventh governor of Bithynia to be indicted on his return for crimes real or contrived?

  “We got along like brothers, each to his own sphere, no conflicts, no ruction.” Balbus seemed to feel the point needed underlining.

  “We’re having trouble finding a number of documents in the-”

  “Took ‘em with him,” Balbus cut him off. “Perfect right to. Governor’s papers are his own, you know that. Mine too.”

  Pliny decided for the moment to let that pass. This was not the time or place.

  Balbus swung his legs off the dining couch, stood and stretched. “Show you around the place.” Dinner, it seemed, was over.

  The villa and grounds were spectacular, crammed with first-rate statues and objects, although jumbled together and poorly displayed as though the mere having of them was all that mattered to the procurator and his wife. Calpurnia, who was an artist herself, made appreciative comments to her hostess and asked where they had acquired this bust, that vase. Fabia glowered and answered her with curt monosyllables.

  It was growing dark now and they were returning from the garden, Pliny and Calpurnia walking ahead, followed by Balbus and his wife and the others, when a slender figure, half-hidden in the shadow of the doorway, suddenly bolted across their path and vanished into the dim recesses of the house. It was so unexpected Calpurnia gasped and grabbed Pliny’s arm. “What on earth was that?”

  Instantly, Balbus and Fabia were on either side of them, shouldering them back. “One of the slaves,” said Fabia too loudly, “pay no attention.” But her eyes said something else. For an instant, Calpurnia could have sworn, those agate eyes turned liquid.

  It was all over in a moment and Balbus was eager to see his guests to their carriages.

  “Delightful couple,” said Suetonius with a twinkle in his eye. He, Pliny, and Calpurnia had stepped down from their carriages and stood together at the palace gate. “You’re going to have your hands full with Balbus.”

  “Balbus will open his books for me or find himself back in Rome explaining himself to Trajan. The
emperor was very clear. There is too much money sloshing about in this province, misspent, unaccounted for, squandered on projects that never seem to be completed. Whether our friend Balbus has his fingers in any of that I do not know. But I plan to find out.”

  “Do they have children?” Calpurnia asked.

  “Why do you ask?” said Pliny.

  “I just thought-no reason, really.”

  “You, by the way, were wonderful, my dear as always. Putting up with that dragon.”

  “Fabia doesn’t like me.”

  “Not surprising. She’s enjoyed the highest rank among the Roman wives up until now. I know that doesn’t matter to you but it does to a woman like her. You now hold that place, like it or not, ’Purnia.”

  If it had not been so dark Pliny would have seen the anxious look that crossed her face. Suetonius, with sharper eyes, perhaps did see it.

  “Well,” said Pliny. “Let’s make an early night. Busy day tomorrow. We meet the Greeks.”

  “Just one thing more, Gaius Plinius,” Suetonius said. “If you don’t mind. What Balbus said earlier, something about the Praetorians visiting you the night before the unlamented Domitian died. Some danger to yourselves? Happens I’m gathering material for another project of mine, biographies of the Caesars from Julius to Domitian. I’d be grateful for anything you might…”

  Pliny froze him with a look.

  “Well, I mean, that is…” Suetonius looked from Pliny to Calpurnia, who gazed at him steadily.

  “We don’t speak of that night,” she said.

  “Yes, well-sorry,” he stammered, “please forget I asked.”

  “Already forgotten, my friend.” Pliny smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Sleep well.”

  ***

  Not everyone slept that night.

  In the temple of Asclepius, in a secret chamber beneath the great gold and ivory statue of the god, lamps burned late and a dozen sweating figures bent to their work: Shall I receive the allowance? Will I be sold? Am I to be reconciled with my father? Will I get a furlough? Is he who is away from home alive? Is my partner cheating me? Am I to become a beggar? Will I become a fugitive? Will my son waste my property? Am I to be divorced from my husband? Will I get my money back? Is someone diddling my wife?

  Lads with nimble fingers inserted hot needles under the wax seals of the tabellae, opened them, and read out the questions. This was accompanied by a good deal of laughter. (“Yes, you old fool, half the town’s diddling her!”)

  Pancrates permitted this. He paid them little enough, let them enjoy themselves. Better paid and more serious were his oracle writers, men with a smattering of literary education who composed the answers in crabbed poetic verses that could mean anything. The written replies were attached to the tabellae, which were then resealed so deftly that no one would suspect they had been opened. Often though, if the hour grew late and they were tired, they would simply attach stock answers without bothering even to read the questions. In any case, the next day the questioners would receive their responses for the price of a silver drachma. Hundreds of drachmas a day.

  But that was for the common run of questioners. Seekers of higher status were vouchsafed an oracle from the mouth of the sacred python itself. Pancrates was careful to do this only rarely so as not to dilute the effect by overexposure. It was a complicated and tiring performance. He would sit in the doorway of the temple, the snake, asleep with drugged milk, hanging like a dead weight from his shoulders, its head under his arm, while he opened and closed the mouth of a canvas snake head by pulling invisible strands of horsehair. A confederate hidden behind him spoke through a tube made of cranes’ windpipes.

  For still more important clients-the Romans and their foolish wives-Pancrates would grant personal visitations: drawing out their secrets so subtly that he seemed, to their amazement, to read their unspoken thoughts. It was a talent he had perfected over years.

  For the past six months he had toured the provinces of Greece and Asia, drawing immense crowds everywhere he went and putting to shame those shabby Christian proselytizers whom he encountered at every turn. Now he had returned in triumph to Nicomedia, all the more sought after because of his absence. It was time now to reactivate his network of informants. For in every great house there was some servant, some lowly hanger-on, who was on Pancrates’ payroll. They sent him people’s characters, forecasts of their questions, and hints of their ambitions, so that he had his answers ready. And sometimes the questions revealed that the writers were up to illegal activities. In these cases he didn’t return the tablet with an answer but held on to it and used it to blackmail the sender. Here was where the real money was made.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning

  The 12th day before the Kalends of October

  “And so we entreat Almighty Zeus to favor our city, our province, our new governor and the benevolent Emperor who, in his wisdom, has sent him to guide us…”

  Pliny, sitting stiffly, itching in his toga on this unseasonably warm morning, was moved in spite of himself by the thrumming baritone. Never mind that what was said was far less important than what was not said. He knew that Bithynia-like every land inhabited by Greeks-was a cockpit of warring factions, who agreed on only one thing-resentment of their Roman masters. In Nicomedia, in Prusa, in Nicaea and the other cities of the province, their ancestors had once debated questions of war and peace, life and death. Roman domination had put an end to that, yet their fractious spirit lived on, the more bitter as the stakes were smaller. Each city was a stage where the grandees waged constant battle for honor and influence. The rise of one meant the downfall of another and, like the all-out wrestling matches that these Greeklings were so fond of, there were no holds barred. Their world was a taut, vibrating web of shifting alliances, of rivalry and obligation. A disturbance at any node sent shivers racing along its silken strands. At the center of this particular web sat Diocles of the Golden Throat.

  Pliny knew him, of course, by reputation. Diocles’ oratorical powers were famous throughout the civilized world, his circle of friends reached even to Rome. Diocles wasn’t a big man physically, he was shorter than Pliny, but he seemed somehow to swell, to grow as he addressed the citizens, councilors, and magistrates of his city. Tossing his leonine head with its mane of silver hair swept back, thrusting out his chest like a bantam cock’s, sculpting the air with gestures precisely choreographed to accompany every shifting inflection, he sent his voice up to the highest tier of seats in the vast, open-air theater. To Pliny’s trained eye it was a performance not to be missed.

  A pity that the surroundings failed to equal the grandeur of the sentiments. The theater, at close hand, was a near ruin. After an expenditure of three million sesterces to repair it, it was subsiding with huge cracks and holes. The colonnade behind the stage was littered with column drums lying where they had been abandoned a year or more ago, and beyond it a giant crane rose up against the sky, its ropes slack, the circular cage of its treadmill, where slaves had once labored, now empty. And this same dismal scene, Pliny knew, was replicated in every city in the province. Huge sums had been raised to beautify the cities, to provide baths, aqueducts, gymnasia and every other amenity of civilized life, only to vanish-into whose pockets? — with the work still undone. And meanwhile anti-Roman sentiment and factional violence grew with every passing day.

  It was for this that Pliny had been sent here. And today he would tell them plainly what he intended to do. He was by instinct a modest man but this morning he had proceded to the theater with all the majesty that a Roman governor could command. He rode in an open litter preceded by trumpeters and a dozen lictors, bearing the fasces on their shoulders and bawling at the crowd to make way. Behind him marched his senior staff, all in brilliant white togas, and following them a long tail of supernumeraries and assorted “friends.” Unseen in the crowd, soldiers in civilian dress stood ready to pounce on anyone with an angry face or a stone in his hand. Meanwhile, Balbus, not to
be outshone, led his own procession with nearly equal pomp from his headquarters in the treasury building. Here, then, was the might of Rome assembled-palpable, undeniable, inescapable.

  Diocles, who was a former archon of Nicomedia and a member of the city council, was introducing Pliny now, his honeyed voice full of words like concord, harmony, honor, friendship, order. His faction cheered him wildly, as they were paid to do, but from here and there in the audience came catcalls from other factions.

  Then Pliny took the rostrum and waited for silence. When he spoke it was in the careful, measured tones of the professional lawyer. His oratorical training was impeccable but he wasn’t the showman that Diocles was. His speech, carefully written and memorized, was short and to the point. Rome depended on the wealthy men in every city to make the wheels of empire turn. But if they abused their position, squandered their money, punishment would be swift. He was embarking at once on a tour of every city in the province where he would examine accounts and hold hearings. He asked for their loyalty and cooperation.

  The silence, when he sat down, was deafening. Which was about what he had expected.

  Diocles swept toward him, followed by his retinue: all of them prosperous, well-fed, sleek; men whom Pliny must win over if he was to accomplish anything here.

  “Splendid words, Governor, inspiring! Of course, my friends and I are all behind you.” He indicated them with a jutting chin. The friends nodded and made noises of agreement. “What a relief to have things put to rights at last.” You arrogant barbarian. You spawn of a city that was founded by wild men and robbers. You pillager of all the world, you enemy of civilization. What mischief will you make among us now? “I look forward to entertaining you at my estate one day soon for an exchange of views. Leaving at once, are you? For Prusa? Are things there as bad as that? Yes, I quite understand. Like Atlas, you must shoulder your burden, like Hercules, you have your labors, like Theseus-well, you know what I mean. Another time, then. In the meantime what can I do to make your stay pleasanter? Nothing? Oh, surely. What? A Greek tutor for your wife? Admirable!” Another Roman whore, who prances around the city unveiled and reclines at table with men, actually talks to them like an equal! Oh, certainly, she wants to improve her Greek the better to abuse us in our own tongue. “Yes, I think I know just the man.”