Pliny had known the man only by sight and reputation. The world of senatorial society was large enough that he could avoid meeting people he found disagreeable, and Verpa had never shown any interest in meeting him, the gods be thanked! The man had been a notorious informer all the way back to Nero’s reign.
Informers were a cancer on the Roman Senate. Every emperor began his reign by denouncing the evil, but sooner or later succumbed to the temptation of listening to the vicious innuendo spread by the informer against his fellow senators and their families. Condemnation was certain, and the informer divided the victim’s property with the emperor.
Verpa had begun by denouncing a woman of senatorial family for treason because a slave saw her undressing before the emperor’s image, and, on another occasion, he condemned a man for carrying a coin with Domitian’s portrait into a privy. But he had outdone himself when he denounced Clemens, the emperor’s own cousin, and his wife, Domitilla, on a charge of atheism and performing Jewish practices. Verpa had brought this charge openly in the Senate. Pliny had been there to hear him. It was indeed a shocking revelation, but Verpa had incontrovertible evidence to back it up, and the emperor went nearly insane with anger. Clemens was swiftly strangled and his wife banished for life to an island. Sextus Ingentius Verpa was riding high; that is, until someone butchered him in the night. Tomorrow Pliny must poke a stick into this anthill and turn it over. The thought of it revolted him.
When at last he drifted off to sleep, naked black children invaded his dreams, hanging on his arms and legs, dragging him somewhere he did not want to go.
Pliny was not the only one whose night was filled with terrors. Domitianus Caesar, Lord and God, emperor and high priest of Rome, sat alone in his bed chamber—his refuge, his inner sanctum, where few ever penetrated. Because he feared the dark, tiers of lamps made the room almost as bright as day. A bluebottle struggled between his thumb and forefinger, waving its small legs. He raised a needle-sharp stylus and ran it through. More flies buzzed inside a baited jar, waiting execution.
When he was a boy, ignored, despised by everyone, Domitian would while away whole days brooding over hurts and resentments. Lately he had begun to do it again. The Helmsman of the World had sunk into a misery of fear.
Parthenius scratched at the door and eased it open—the nightly ritual of bringing the emperor his wine and a few choice tidbits left over from dinner on a silver tray.
“Master, I congratulate you on tonight’s performance. Who but your divinity could have conceived such a stratagem?”
“I!” Domitian swept his arm across the tray, sending flask and dishes clattering to the floor. The boy with the small head, Earinus, who had been asleep in the corner, sat up and blinked.
“My plan? You fat turd, this was your plan! Frighten the senators into betraying themselves, you said, with all that childish mumbo-jumbo. Well, you see how well we succeeded. One word from Nerva quelled it in an instant, and we learned nothing. Instead of exposing them, these philosophers and republicans and atheists, we only drive them deeper underground. You know what happened to Epaphroditus, your predecessor. He gave me bad advice. He was younger and smarter than you are, Parthenius. I loved him.” Domitian smiled; his teeth caught the candle light and glittered like knives.
Parthenius, his several chins quivering, stooped to gather the dishes. He had raised self-abasement to an art. “Cocceius Nerva could be removed, Master. It only takes a word.”
“And seven more will spring up in his place. I’m fighting a hydra. They all hate me.”
“No matter, you saw their fear, Lord of the World. Recall the words of Caligula, ‘Let them hate, as long as they fear.’”
“Yes, and look what happened to him, you donkey!” The Lord of the World squinched his tired eyes, then opened them again.
Parthenius’ smile never faltered, though the pain in his belly was excruciating.
“Don’t stand there, grinning like an ape, pour me more wine, and put a drop of laudanum in it. You know I don’t—don’t sleep well lately.”
“Of course, Master.” Parthenius extended a pudgy hand with the goblet. “Will you require anything else tonight?”
“Ah, what would I do without you, my friend. Who else can I trust? Come here, kiss me.”
The chamberlain bent awkwardly to comply, and Domitian struck him across the mouth with his open hand. “Get away, you disgust me, you’re too fat.”
Parthenius, his face a frozen mask, bowed himself out the door and sagged against the corridor wall. With a perfumed handkerchief from his sleeve he dabbed at the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He remembered that Epaphroditus had been summoned one night to Domitian’s bedroom. The emperor had made love with him, had dined with him, sent him away with every sign of affection, and the next day signed an order for the man’s crucifixion. Parthenius sighed as the spasm of pain passed off. He smoothed his gown, took a deep breath, and went unsteadily down the hall.